


Mourning, Morning

by leslielol



Series: Mode & Moment [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Breakfast, Gen, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Pre-Slash, Second-Hand Embarrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7007020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslielol/pseuds/leslielol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ADA Barba's protective detail is derelict in its duties, prompting a late-night visit from one of Manhattan's finest. Post-season 17 finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning, Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the summary, this is Gen as all get out. Pre-Slash for sure, but Gen all the same.

When he realized what he’d done, Rafael Barba got dressed. 

He did not know how the thought escaped him, but after calling Detective Carisi and informing him of his concern that the protective detail stationed at the front of his building had seemingly _disappeared,_ there was but one natural conclusion. 

Placing a simple call would not do; Carisi would investigate in person. 

So Barba found and drew on tartan blue pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt, an excessive amount of wears when he normally slept in little more than a pair of boxers. He stood at the very edge of the large window giving his apartment a view of the street below. The curtain was pulled--had been for months now--but Barba could still peek out. He stared at the odd passerby, but still found so sight of his protective detail. 

Barba stood there spying at the second-most familiar stretch of pavement he’d ever known, save for the broken slabs of concrete outside his childhood apartment. The view had never meant much to him before, but now he knew every window facing his own, every inch of street, every step of sidewalk. 

His heart skipped a beat when a man started up the street in a run, and skid to a stop at Barba’s building. He looked around, kept walking down the corner, then doubled back. Barba knew the head of dirty blonde hair and long-legged strides to be Carisi’s, but the erratic movements gave him a moment’s pause.

It was another five minutes before Carisi himself appeared at Barba’s door--another surprise, because Barba had forgotten he’d given Carisi the keycode to enter the building. He guessed the doorman remembered Carisi from earlier surveillance and interviews. 

Carisi came barging in, still red-faced from either the run or anger, Barba didn’t immediately know. He was quick to realize it was the latter.

Fast as he’d come up the street, Carisi put his speed to shame running his mouth.

“You were right. The guy left his post. Went up the street for a smoke, lost track of time eyeballing some re-run ESPN bullshit playing at a convenience store. Because guarding a man’s life wasn’t _doing it for him.”_

Carisi continued, basically giving Barba a reenactment of how thoroughly he’d chewed the guy out. Barba wanted to ask how it was Carisi had the inclination to berate a fellow officer, maybe find out when he’d added _chief of police_ to his litany of titles. But for once, Barba couldn’t get a word in. 

Finally, Carisi faltered, apologized. He glanced back at the apartment door only to see that sometime during his rant, Barba had closed and locked it. 

“Sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn’t--my fear does nothing to ease yours, right?”

Barba frowned at that. 

“Are you? Afraid.” _For me_ was implied. Barba didn’t know what stifled it; the late hour or his unwillingness to put himself fully into his new reality. Accomplished lawyer that he was, he knew he could argue both. But Carisi was no slouch in his corner--a detective who passed the same bar exam Barba had--and Barba figured he could only get away with the latter. 

Carisi took in a deep breath and Barba thought he was in for another displaced lecture. 

Instead, what he heard was more of an eulogy. Carisi spoke as though someone had taken his most tightly-held ideals and strangled the life out of them. 

“Yeah, I am.” He made eye contact with Barba, held it. “Because a lotta cops don’t seem to understand what Munson did was wrong, or that the three cops you indicted in the death of Terrence Reynolds were wrong. I’m afraid that the people who think that way will reason themselves into doing something _phenomenally stupid.”_

The outburst wasn’t a surprise--Carisi seemed prone to them--but his tone was measured and sure, like he’d given thought to exactly this conversation. 

Barba tried to lighten the mood--admittedly, a difficult thing to do in discussions of his promised death. “Terrorizing an ADA?”

Carisi’s eyes flashed, and somewhere behind them, Barba imagined that another promise was being made. “Yeah, and going up against SVU to do it.”

Barba had to smirk at that. The detectives he worked with were strong people, tested by all that they’d seen and made better for it. Carisi’s bravado wasn’t bluster; there was steel in his spine. 

Same as there were dark bags under his eyes, and holes at the throat of the threadbare _Fordham Law_ t-shirt peeking out from under a hastily drawn-on jacket. Barba realized--perhaps better now than when he’d made the call at 3am--that he’d roused Carisi straight out of bed.

It made him feel at fault. Why couldn’t he damn the facts and feel safe despite them? Like getting into a car every morning and not giving a thought to a possible collision, or visiting family on holidays and thinking the same non-answers he’d had since college about starting a family would tide him over? Where was that capacity to disregard reality now? He couldn’t get his mouth around those exact words, so he settled.

“Can I get you a drink?”

Carisi--quite inexplicably--raised and looked at his hands. They were white-knuckled from where he’d braced them on his hips while prowling around Barba’s apartment.

“No, thank you. I’m pissed off. I should drink when I’m pissed off.”

“Interesting rule,” Barba allowed, squinting. “Counterintuitive.” 

He sidestepped Carisi all the same and made for his kitchen. He heard Carisi following him, sneakers squeaking as they met the linoleum. Barba wondered if he was simply aware of the presence of his colleague in his apartment at such an hour, or if his mind had assumed a perpetual state of hyper-awareness. Without looking, he knew Carisi kept a few steps behind him and stopped at the fridge, either in a conscious attempt not to corner Barba, or else to read over the few notices Barba kept magnetized to his fridge. One of them is a roster of his protective detail with a few notes scrawled in the margins. 

Barba fixed himself just a finger of scotch, something to sooth his nerves. It was all predicated on the fact that _he_ wasn’t pissed off, and that was reason enough to indulge.

Behind him, Carisi drew in a breath, and Barba expected the man to mount another charge, a promise regarding the notes he’d made. _If your morning detail keeps losing you in traffic, Counselor, he’s a security risk. We’ll switch him out._

Instead, Carisi sighed, said only, “I feel like I’ve been drinking a lot, lately.”

“Oh?” 

The glass had just met Barba’s lips. He drew it back, as if the aged scotch had taken on an awful stink.

“No--not like,” Carisi made a face caught between unrest and annoyance. He was a lot of things to a tee--a good Catholic boy, something of a know-it-all--but he wasn’t so cliche as to develop _a problem_ overnight. “No. But Dodds...” 

Carisi seemed to start and stop in the same breath. He leaned over against the countertop in Barba’s kitchen area, knees knocking the lower cabinets, frame twisted slightly so that he was still facing Barba. He looked halfway drawn to prayer at the mere mention of his slain colleague’s name. “I know it’s supposed to be in his honor, but. It’s starting to leave a bad taste in my mouth, you know?”

“Sure. I get that.” Barba downed his drink, anyway. It hit the back of his throat like a fire going out, then settled warm in his belly. “I apologize for making you come all the way out here for nothing. There could have at least been a brick through my window, or a decapitated chicken in my mailbox.” 

Carisi smiled at that one, at least. 

“It wasn’t for nothing. That guy left his post.” 

“All the same,” Barba said, and while he wanted to refill his empty glass, he set it down in the sink, instead. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, but it’s Friday,” Carisi reasoned, as if he wouldn’t have hauled ass across the city any other night. 

“Saturday,” Barba corrected. “Though I suppose late nights aren’t so far gone for you, yet.”

“The fun ones are,” Carisi admitted, and dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets while shrugging, making for the strange vision of both lengthening and shortening his torso. “It’s weird. I don’t know what to do with my nights now that I’ve finished school.” 

“From personal experience, you’ll spend the first year wondering why you bothered.” Barba paused, considered if even amidst his success and triumphs, if he still didn’t regret his choice of career. “And then again, later in life, when you’re receiving death threats.”

“Got that one good decade, though,” Carisi said, quicker and sharper than Barba would have expected of him. He could have applauded.

“Almost two.”

“Something to look forward to,” Carisi pressed, but did not miss the look of uncertainty that passed over Barba’s features. The creep of his eyebrows and thinning of his lips, the embodiment of the unknown, a physical _well, maybe._

Carisi raised a hand to sweep through his hair, plaster it down towards his skull. 

“So. You’re good?”

“Peachy.”

“Good. But I’m going to stick around.”

Barba’s eyes rolled back, two dead fish lilting towards a pool’s surface. “Dear lord.”

Carisi held up his hands, palms open in mock-surrender. “Just. I want to walk the block. And come on, if I leave now I’d be kept awake thinking about it, anyway.”

“If it’ll make you feel better.” Barba chose not to include himself in that sentiment. “Then sure. Circle the block. But come back up. I’ll get you a blanket and you can sleep on the couch.”

Carisi’s face opened, because he’d truly not expected an invitation to stay. “Hey, thanks Counselor.” 

As soon as Carisi was out the door--with the parting comment to lock it immediately--Barba fished his glass out of the sink and poured himself another two fingers of scotch. It was nerves, he decided. _Nerves,_ hand over fist. What else but the misfiring of brain signals, bursts of adrenaline, and fear of certain death could make him not only request Carisi’s aid, but then provide every opportunity for the man’s continued presence? 

“Salud,” Barba murmured to himself, and drained his glass. If he couldn’t beat back his fears, he’d certainly drown them.

-

There was casework spread out over the coffee table that Barba tackled first. He hadn’t expected guests, and while he was sure Carisi would, in fact, _cherish_ the opportunity to pour over Barba’s work, Barba found the mess to be uncouth. 

He retrieved a sheet and a blanket from the linen closet, folded the former over the couch and tucked the stray ends under the cushions, then folded the latter in half and laid it longways. He didn’t have extra pillows, so he pulled one off his own bed, eyeballing it for any stray hairs or drool stains. It passed muster. The combined effect was almost presentable.

Barba wasn’t a judge; there’d be no guest bedrooms in his near future. 

Upon his return, Carisi seemed impressed. He kicked off his shoes at the door, a quick effort that spoke of feeling foolish for not doing it the first time around. He took off his jacket, too, and Barba knew he shouldn’t have been surprised to see the gun holstered at Carisi’s hip, but he was. 

“Wouldn’t have thought you for a homemaker,” Carisi said with a lopsided smile. 

Barba folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t think owning an extra blanket earns me the title.”

“I appreciate this,” Carisi said, then turned away so that Barba wouldn’t feel obligated to say the same. 

“Bathroom’s on your right.” 

-

Barba retired to his bedroom, but found neither rest nor solitude. Every sound was amplified, every voice seemed to sing upwards five storeys from the streetside below. Barba imagined a penthouse apartment, something so lost to the sky that solitude was a given. But his thoughts turned to opportunity, and he again had visions of his smiling visitor intruding on that space, then sending him cascading down to earth, picking up speed until the ground rose up to meet him.

At five storeys, at least there was a possibility of survival. 

He sat on the side of his bed thinking only of this. Like death was an argument he could win.

Half an hour after they’d parted, Carisi knocked slowly at Barba’s bedroom door. 

“Hey. It’s me. I noticed your light was still on. Everything okay?”

“Fine. I’m just reading.” Barba scrambled to find a book at his bedside.

Carisi was quiet for a time. But there was nary a question that came into his head he didn’t inevitably ask, and thus: “Can I come in?” 

He didn’t, not quite. After opening the door Carisi kept his distance, only allowing so much as a socked toe to cross the threshold. Still fully dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, Barba doubted Carisi had so much as tested the couch. 

It was a strange thing to be looked at while in bed, Barba thought. The lack of intent was what stuck with him. For as often as he’d felt stared at and watched in the past year, Carisi’s look stood apart as entirely unique. His expression--though lined and drawn with worry--was softened with consideration.

“You’re not sleeping well,” Carisi observed. He seemed slackened by the discovery, as if he’d expected more from Barba, perhaps a sense of impossibility. Barba would have thought he’d surrendered _that_ particular fantasy when he called Carisi an hour ago, or when he’d first told him and Detective Rollins about the threats. They’d practically loomed over him, their faces blank with wonder as they tried to comprehend how an ADA could be so _stupid_ as to shrug off serious threats against his life.

Barba decided to preempt Carisi’s pep talk. “I’m letting this get to me,” he admitted. “It’s foolish.”

Carisi sagged against the doorway. “It’d be foolish if you ignored it. Kind of like you did, for nine months.”

“Oh, _please.”_ Barba pushed off his bed, stood barefoot before his company. It was hardly the most authoritative move, but it was all he could manage. He meant to confront Carisi, but worried about isolating himself. It was ridiculous--Carisi practically worshiped Barba, and allowing the man to shadow him only added to the fanfare. Passing the bar himself did Carisi a lot of good; he finally started to meet Barba with the understanding that they stood on a similar level. Barba was glad for the change, because it freed him of the notion that Carisi was taking detailed mental notes every time they spoke.

Finally, he could simply be heard. 

Barba wished he only had something worthwhile to say, instead of the defeatist dreck that lodged itself in his throat and threatened to choke him.

“You’ll learn this, too. You never prosecute a case in a vacuum. I get nasty phone calls from the families and supporters of those I’ve put away. People stop me outside the courthouse and spit in my face. It comes with the job.” Barba indulged in his habit of pacing. He walked the length of his bedroom, stopping to peer out the window. Below, he could just make out the smudge of blue against the grey street--his protective detail, appropriately chided and returned to his post.

“I’ve never been afraid before. Not until this guy seems to show up everywhere I am and is able to get me alone in a crowd of people. Can _smile_ and _say things_ to me.” Barba supposed that’s what unnerved him most; Felipe Heredio hadn’t laid a hand on him, and yet Barba was had come to take his taunts seriously. 

Barba did not feel wholly himself in this telling; it was as if he’d taken on a character, one he could speak about more freely because the other man’s problems were not his own. Barba felt himself slipping from his own line of sight. What he wanted, what he’d worked so hard to achieve, and what his name meant in relation to his deeds… nothing in him seemed to be able to stand up to threats and bowl over fear. 

What was it all for?

He continued, because it was rare Carisi made for both a captive _and_ quiet audience. 

“Even then--it’s par for the course. When I passed the guy _in the lobby of my building_ and called to report it, and the officer on the other line _knew me by name…_ that’s when this changed. _That’s_ when I got scared.” 

“I’m sorry,” Carisi said. His tone was weak and muted. “We oughta be better. We’re supposed to be.”

“We?” Barba felt unusually gutted by his own remarks. Running his mouth had never before taken but breath, and now it stole his very presence. He imagined breaking out into a cold sweat, next. _Unseemly._

“Cops.”

Barba gave a small shake of his head; he hadn’t meant to condemn the entire community Carisi himself was a part of. “You’re here.”

“And the guy downstairs wasn’t. It can’t be hit or miss. We all have to be our best. That’s the only way this works.” 

Barba suddenly felt tired. This was a conversation had a million times, inside the courtroom and out, from adolescence to adulthood. It never seemed to move but an inch in either direction. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, looked at Carisi expectantly. He turned the tone of his voice on a dime, made himself sound cool and assured when he asked, “Is the couch uncomfortable?”

“What?”

“Why aren’t you asleep?” 

Carisi made a face as though it was unfair for Barba to even ask. _“You_ weren’t asleep.”

Barba waved a dismissive hand. “Unless you want to continue probing the ways and means by which one of humanity’s most necessary social constructs is crumbling…” he trailed off, his point made. Carisi was smirking, shaking his head. “Goodnight, Detective.”

“Night, Counselor.” 

“Carisi--” Barba stopped himself. The reasons he could give for a little informality could go on and on: _You just crossed half the city because I couldn’t bring myself to visit the lobby of my building. You’re sleeping on my couch. You’re here._ “You can call me Rafael.”

Carisi made a thoughtless gesture of victory--he softly snapped the fingers on one hand and clapped it with the other. “Okay.”

“You’re not going to ask me to call you _Sonny?”_ Barba grew up speaking Spanish, and diminutives were familiar to him for all the wrong reasons. He liked the titles he’d earned, though he was reticent to cling to them at every turn. 

Carisi raised his arms in defeat. “I ask everyone to call me that. Nobody does. _Carisi_ is growing on me, though.”

“Why…” Barba waved a hand, let it carry his question. 

“My dad used to call me Sonny.”

“If he called you ‘Champ,’ would you still insist on it?”

Carisi smiled goofily, admitted, “Yeah, probably.”

Confident at least in his ability to make an exit, Barba stepped forward, put a foot between Carisi’s and took control of the door. He wore a sharp grin--the likes of which he normally saved for his courtroom trouncings--and, seeing it, Carisi took an instinctive step back.

“Thank god for small victories, then,” Barba said, and closed the door.

-

Barba awoke feeling more rested than four hours ought to afford him, but did not question it. Good fortune was hard to come by, and seeing it was a challenge all its own. 

He laid awake, unmoving, and imagined the sun’s warmth on his skin. His latched-shut and curtained windows did not allow for this luxury, but Barba knew the taste of the sun like a lover’s kiss. He retreated to the sun-soaked summers of his childhood, those he spent with sand between his toes, others with concrete radiating heat through the soles of his shoes. 

Morning made his reticence for solitude even more asinine. The thought that his security would be heightened because of this single lapse made his stomach turn. He didn’t like the constant police presence any more than the threat of violence breaking through it. And while he’d prefer a life without either, Barba would gladly take both if only it meant that his confidence was returned to him. 

He didn’t dream of safety, even now. All he wanted was to be able to stroll past his security detail and would-be assailants alike. 

When he rallied himself and abandoned his bed, Barba dressed casually--jeans and a crisp button-down, the sleeves rolled to expose his forearms--and placated his hair as best he could without a comb, mirror, or gel. At the thought of his company--a young man who’d slept on a couch all night--Barba didn’t think there’d be much in the way of competition for best-dressed. He wasn’t wrong.

Barba entered his living room to find Carisi stationed at the window. He’d thrown back the curtain and was staring blatantly at all passersby. The living room was awash in dull morning light, the kind that excited dust and threw shadows where none stood to rise. The space looked happier for it, drawn in shades of blue when Barba had come to mistake the tones for perpetual grey.

Carisi’s hair was swept up in all directions, or else laid flat. He buried a hand in it, and that hand was party to the one elbow Carisi raised level with his head. He rested it on a cushion of bunched curtain along the right jamb. 

“Don’t you start,” Barba said, announcing himself. He pointed towards the window. “That’s where I toil away the hours. Find your own lookout.” 

In just a few months he’d become like someone's grandmother who, after decades of making her way in the city, suddenly felt compelled to fear it. Barba stood at Carisi’s side and stared out the window with him. 

He admitted, “I don't know who I'm looking for.”

Then, after a beat, “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

Carisi dropped his gaze down his own slim figure. He’d abandoned his jeans, which left him in a t-shirt, boxers, and socked feet. His long, bare legs spilled out from his shorts with what his sisters often termed, _offending whiteness._

“Oh, _jeez,_ hey, excuse me--” 

Red-faced, he scuttled back behind the couch, snagged his jeans and disappeared into the bathroom. 

Barba felt positively giddy as he abandoned the window for his kitchen, where he set upon his french press. There was no need to prowl his apartment, flipping every lightswitch. The curtain was open and the day spilled in. 

“Coffee?” he called out, his tone dripping with cheer. Getting the jump on someone else was altogether a more successful means of lifting his spirits than even a taste of scotch or whiskey, on which he’d come to rely. 

“Uh, sure. That’d be great.”

Over the top of his coffee grinder, a curiosity outside his apartment, through the window, and across the street caught his attention. Barba felt his blood slow in his veins, and something like breath caught in his chest, except it felt like antifreeze spidering into every artery, touching all in the hopes that one could lead to his sudden death.

“Can I use this toothbrush? Green one in the plastic wrap?” 

Barba ducked his head slightly, said in a strained voice, _“Carisi.”_

Carisi took half a step out of the bathroom, asked, “That’s a no on the--?”

“Stay where you are. I saw a flash of--light? Something. Across the street. Maybe the six storey window, second from the right?”

The smile fell from Carisi’s face and he traded the toothbrush for his sidearm. “Okay. Come ‘ere. Out of the line of sight. Walk.”

Barba grit his teeth, and as he approached the bathroom, Carisi left it. “Have I ever given the impression that _running_ is in my repertoire?”

The _shush_ gesture Carisi made came all too easily, and for a moment Barba felt more slighted than fearful. The bathroom was the most insulated area of his apartment, though knowing as much did nothing to calm Barba’s nerves. His first instinct was to follow after Carisi, except for the fact that the man had thrown a hand behind him as if to ward away Barba’s presence, specifically. 

Barba felt his apartment shrink around him and become the size of an elevator. He prided himself on never fretting--not when staring down a criminal, a difficult case, his mother, nothing. The surveillance footage from the courthouse was proof of this; he was not rattled by threats and insinuations. Nevermind that it was his first piece of tangible proof that what he was being made to feel was orchestrated and purposeful--what the video showed, first and foremost, was his indomitable nature. It was a nice thing to see even when he did not feel it.

Barba drew himself out of his own head and tried to focus on the matter at hand. He watched as Carisi, gun drawn, hugged the outline of his apartment until he reached the window. There, he stood, slightly inclined, knees bent, ready. He stared silently, and did not let so much as a single breath disturb the line of the curtain. 

After what felt like hours, he slipped his sidearm back into his holster, then traded it for his phone. Carefully, he angled the camera’s lens out the window and snapped a slow progression of photos of the building facing Barba’s. Then, he closed the curtain and studied the shots he’d taken, searching for whatever evil had startled Barba. 

“Uh,” Carisi returned a hand to his hair--briefly--then dropped it, let it sit on his hip. His unease was one Barba recognized. Quite simply, Carisi was preparing himself to say something stupid.

“Looks like a woman setting a brass kettle on the counter. Must have caught the light.” He held up the photo for Barba to see. 

“Jesus,” Barba said, mortified. It was a simple kettle. Nothing like a camera or sniper rifle or anything his mind conjured, taking fear and working it into a premonition. Any relief he might have felt was swallowed up by complete shame. This was debasement of the self, the worst he’d ever done. Possibly the worst since time began, second only to man’s discovery of pleasure. 

Carisi raised a hand like he meant to drop it on Barba’s shoulder, a comfort where a slap might have better suited the situation. He thought better of both, and returned his hand to his hip.

“Hey, no. Good eye.” 

Barba met Carisi with the dirtiest look he could muster. “Please do not _compliment_ my rapid descent into insanity.”

“No, I mean it. It’s better to take this seriously, even if it makes you a little crazy.” He smiled widely, and Barba supposed anything that looked so dopey had to be genuine. “Hey, look at me. I drew my gun on a teapot.” 

“We’re all winners here,” Barba said, and admittedly felt a little less like drinking cleaning solution.

“How about that coffee, huh?”

“I'll get you a thermos…”

“I can drink it fast.”

“Because that's something people do.”

Carisi leaned easily against the countertop, seemingly very pleased with himself. “Hey, maybe you still need my protection. Could be a Vitamix next door.”

Barba had to bite his tongue to stifle something like an insult, but by his making, a thing near-deadly.

Instead he tempered himself, saying only, “Cute. Very cute.”

Carisi laughed a little, knowing that he’d bested the ADA, though to what degree he could not fathom. It was a far cry from the solemn words spoken there some hours ago, his honest admission about Dodds and how he’d suddenly faced the question of how he would handle his anger. Barba seemed to recall Carisi had decided what wouldn’t work, but had made no greater strides than that. 

“I was worried for a second there,” Carisi mumbled, still smiling, “That you’d say I’d make a better comedian than a lawyer.”

And Barba supposed that _would be_ a terrible insult for Carisi--to hear that the legal mind he idolized thought his own to be weak and childish. 

“It wasn’t that funny,” Barba said dryly. Still, he met Carisi’s shy smile with a nod, and they took their coffee at the long kitchen table, a grander thing than most any New Yorker ought to have in their apartment, though Barba was partial to it. He always liked, too, taking his breakfast at a lone seat at the lengthways-center, a newspaper on his left, his phone on the right. 

Perhaps this thought imbued him physically, because Carisi seemed to notice him reaching for something more. 

“You know you can go anywhere, anytime. Protective detail will be with you every step of the way.”

“And doesn’t _that_ sound like a pleasant way to spend the day.”

“Guess not,” Carisi agreed, and frowned at the tabletop. 

“I ought to endear myself to them a little more,” Barba mused, perhaps a touch too cynically. “Would _you_ readily give your life for someone who just wants a leisurely stroll and the paper?”

Carisi shrugged a shoulder. “Depends. The _Daily_ or the _Post?”_

Barba felt the coffee in his mouth sour at the insinuation. “The _Times,_ and we are no longer on speaking terms.” 

They ended up having a quiet little breakfast of coffee and toast. Barba set out two types of jam, and while he didn’t go for either, Carisi tried them both.

Mouth full, he broke into the pleasant silence, saying, “Hey. I’m supposed to ask--is there anyone you think you need to extend security to? Anyone that comes around here enough to be noticed?”

Barba shook his head. “My mother’s taking a long-overdue vacation. Cuba, reconnecting with family.” 

“Wow, that’s great!” He sprayed the exclamation with bits of toast. The next words out of Carisi’s mouth may have very well been a barrage of personal inquiries--Who was she visiting? Would Rafael join her? Did he have a lot of family in Cuba?--but he stifled those curious impulses, and kept his line of questioning to the singular work of keeping Barba out of harm’s way. “Anyone else?”

It was too fast a turnaround, and Barba’s trained ear heard a discrepancy. Where Carisi tried for nonchalance, he came short. There was something sliding up warm to the back of his question, but going unsaid all the same. 

The best way Barba knew to best an uncomfortable question was to turn it back on the asker. 

“Subtle, aren’t we?” he said, and watched Carisi’s cheeks darken. He gleaned more from the involuntary response than the pointless question permitted, and tucked away both for later consideration. “Anyway. No, I informed all my suitors that I’d be out of commission.”

“Ha,” Carisi said, and though his eyes may have brightened he kept his gaze lowered. “Okay, well. Let me know if that changes.”

He shoved the remaining corner of toast into his mouth, chewed noisily, and chased it with the last of his coffee. Then, Carisi set about the apartment, straightening the coffee table he’d moved out of place, spying through the window again, and finally collecting his jacket. His pace was harried, as if Barba had demanded his immediate departure.

Alternatively, Barba moved at a leisurely pace, sipping his coffee and meeting Carisi at the front door. 

“Thanks for the couch,” Carisi said, hands over his own waist and hips as he checked for his phone, wallet, keys, badge, and sidearm. “And the coffee and the toast. Never did let me use the toothbrush, though…” 

“Next time,” Barba said, squinting his eyes as if he meant to couple the gesture with a smile, though there was none. 

Carisi clapped him on the shoulder and maintained contact. “You’re gonna be fine, okay? We’re not losing another.”

Dodds, again. Barba did not speak to it, but he’d callously considered the odds. Statistically, Carisi was right, and the grizzly end Barba was guaranteed wouldn’t see fruition. Then again, there was such a thing as flukes.

And such a thing as _fate,_ if you were a good Catholic boy. 

“Sure.”

Carisi nodded enthusiastically, as if they’d both agreed to pretend the impossible: that life was promised. 

“Call me anytime. If that toaster so much as gives you a look--”

Barba opened the front door for Carisi, and all but threw him out with just a look. “The Vitamix line was funny. Now you’re pushing it.”

“Call me,” Carisi said again, and did not falter. He line of his jaw was off, a product of having bitten the inside of his cheek to keep his expression level--not too hopeful, not too unsure. Just--patient. 

His potential as a comedian aside, Barba thought Carisi was a better detective than a lawyer. At least, for now. He’d struggled and searched and come upon a truth, but there was still a deal to be made for the means by which to hold that truth answerable.

Again, Barba’s eyes narrowed, but then a matching smile--however lopsided and unwitting--followed suit. 

“In the case of my imminent death, you’ll be the first.” 

Even for being in it himself, Barba’s apartment felt empty again. It was both a relief and a disappointment, and in that respect a product of his age. There were measures of his life where _wanting more_ but _knowing better_ dictated his every move. Those tactics seemed to coalesce with experience. 

Barba tidied his apartment. Carisi had folded the blankets set out for him, and beyond toast crumbs on the table, a second coffee mug, and the slight imprint of a head against a borrowed pillow, there was nothing substantial to suggest he’d come around at all, or stayed, or not wanted to leave. 

Nothing, then, save for his prompt return.

He was red-faced from the brisk morning air, his jacket zipped and buttoned from hipt-to-throat. 

“I took your leisurely stroll,” Carisi admitted, “But I brought you back the paper.” 

He presented The Gray Lady herself, and Barba accepted it with the care and handling one might afford a newborn. 

“This must be what everyone means when they say _Manhattan’s finest,”_ he said, his lips twisted into a satisfied smirk. 

When Carisi didn’t turn heel and depart, Barba realized he was perhaps getting what he wanted _and_ a paper. 

“You’re welcome to stay, but as a fair warning--” Barba wet his lips, then unfolded the paper with a satisfying _snap_ of its pages. “I’m going to read this first.”

“This must be why nobody says the same of the ADA’s in this city,” Carisi said, then gave the proposal he had in mind: “You could offer to share.” 

It was a better deal than Barba had imagined.

“Sports section?” he said, a first offer.

Carisi countered: “Sure. Crossword?”

“...You can _help._ ”

Barba made more coffee. Carisi threw open the curtain. Breakfast lasted until lunch. They had a late lunch. They passed on dinner.


End file.
